#it's my personal nightmare at least

[fantasyhighdreamerz]

Fun fact about Yani! If she met Riz first then she would've been obsessed with him due to his lack of interest in romance/sex with her which is what attracted Yani to Gorgug in the first place. (Though with gorgug I have the feeling he just didn't notice her attraction but has the capacity to be romantically interested in her. Unlike Riz who wouldn't be interested in her in that way.)

Ofc we know Riz the flirting would probs go over his head, and she wouldn't be use to a 'boy' acting like that thus her chasing him around. Though once he figured it out as you can imagine it'd be bad for Riz's mental health... Like not only does he have Baron haunting his ass claiming to be his romance partner, but now there's this six foot snake woman trying to get with him.

This is like the Ace/Aro nightmare

^Riz going through the trenches while his friends unaware of the suffering are like "Riz why don't u get with her she sooo obviously wants you. Go and kiss her the ball!!!"

The only funny thing about this idea is the fact that Baron and Yani would fight over Riz constantly an probably destroy the school in the process. 👍 like thanks guys you are ruining life for everyone else around u an for what???

[s0fter-sin]

trans!soap taking his baby and running away from his rich abusive husband

(cw angst, financial abuse, single threat of child abuse, single mention of transphobia)

he's owned soap for years, since he was a teenager; paid for his medication and all his surgeries and tied them so deeply, soap’s lost hope of ever getting away. he gets even worse when soap falls pregnant. he was always controlling; blowing up at him if he spent too long out of the house or did something without telling him. but he becomes utterly possessive during the pregnancy

soap knows it has nothing to do with his safety or the baby's

he knows he sees his baby as an investment; another being he can control and hold over him

he gets worse and worse but there’s nothing soap can do. there's been nothing he can do for a long time. then a few months after the baby is born, soap doesn’t watch his tone closely enough and his husband threatens to drop his baby in punishment for it

soap doesn't think. he doesn't plan

he takes his baby and runs

he sneaks out of the servant's quarters of the sterile mansion he's been forced to live in for almost a decade and walks down the street without a backwards glance; his baby the only thing in his arms. he knows all of his husband's cars have trackers, all of them in his name since he never lets soap drive or go anywhere by himself, so he walks far enough to be out of view of the mansion's cameras and steals one. it doesn't have a car seat and all he can do is clutch his baby to his chest as he drives

he doesn't know where he's going beyond away

he doesn't know what he's going to do; he doesn't have any money, no supplies for his baby, he doesn't even have water for himself so he can reliably breastfeed him. he's terrified his husband will find them; he’s always felt omniscient, always everywhere and seeing everything he did. if he didn’t have eyes somewhere, he paid someone who did and they always dutifully reported back to him

soap just keeps his eyes forward. just keeps driving and driving, lost to the road and numb until the low gas light pops up on the dash and it all hits him at once

he turns into a gas station he can't pay for, in a car he stole, and parks behind it and his baby immediately starts getting fussy

he can't even call him by his name sometimes; too afraid to get attached, too afraid to lose him. as if he doesn’t love him more than life itself

even throughout his pregnancy, as happy as he was to finally have a baby, he didn't know if he could carry to term and that fear just let his husband dig his claws in even deeper; paying for extra scans he could never hope to pay for, favours on top of favours so he would aways owe him and isn’t he such a loving husband? taking soap in when his parents kicked him out for being trans, looking after him for all these years? you can’t even take care of yourself john, you’d still be a woman without me, john, what is this tantrum about john-

soap tugs his shirt up to let his baby feed, drops his head back and cries

he can't stop it; wails loud and uncontrolled, chest heaving with his sobs enough that it sways his baby, occasionally breaking his latch and he can't even do this right-

he can't save him

a light knock sounds on the window and soap flinches, curling over his baby to protect him from his huband's cruel hands

but it's not his husband outside the window

soap blinks tears from his eyes and looks at the large stranger standing beside the car. a neck gaiter covers his mouth and it should be off-putting… but something about him stops the feeling in its tracks. the stranger takes a half-step back and lifts a chilled and sealed water bottle, pressing it towards the window

soap quickly swipes his face clean and rolls down the window. "sorry 'bout that," he apologises with a choked laugh, the careful front he’s built over the years cracked and bleeding

the stranger gives a dismissive but somehow not diminishing shrug. "long day?" he asks

"could say that," he gives a shrug of his own and pats his baby's back as he makes a disgruntled noise, unconsciously swaying him

he politely keeps his gaze up on his face. "looks like you could use a break."

soap's breath hitches, anxiously darting his tongue out over his bottom lip. "could say that," he repeats uselessly and takes the water with a quiet “thanks,”; his throat dry and screaming for it after crying so hard

the stranger hums, watching him down the bottle and soap doesn’t notice his eyes drifting to the backseat and footwell of the passenger side. doesn’t notice the slight tension in his fists at what he sees. "how long you been runnin', lad?"

soap freezes, the water settling in his stomach like a stone. he swallows thickly and the bottle falls from his lips

"not long enough."

the stranger just nods, looking idly back down the highway

"you know, this place is connected to a garage,” he starts, nodding back to a building attached to the station without taking his eyes off the road. “lotta people drift through 'ere on road trips; too many to keep track.”

soap frowns slightly, shifting his hold on his baby

“funny thing is, plenty of 'em just abandon their car when they break down. like yours,” he adds and finally turns back to him with a pointed look. “got a whole junkyard of 'em. just rustin' away. be pretty easy to convince me to trade ya one."

soap’s mouth parts in a gasp as he realises just what the stranger’s saying. "how easy?" he whispers

he shrugs and even with his face hidden beneath the gaiter, he doesn’t feel afraid. "i'd say this car'd be a good deal. would blend right in with the rest of ‘em; no one’d ever notice it. what say i take it off your hands?"

soap's breath shudders out of him, his whole body going limp with relief. his baby's eyes fall shut with a satisfied hum and for the first time he can remember, he feels the gentle touch of hope

"i think we can work something out."

🧼💀

ghost owns the service station soap pulled into. he wanted something quiet and isolated after he retired and you can’t get much quieter than a backwoods servo surrounded by forest. he hasn’t had anyone pull in in days so he’s quick to notice soap’s car. he’s also quick to notice soap's subsequent breakdown in one of the cameras. the sight of him crying, desperately clutching a baby like they’re all he has left in the world, is so familiar he felt sick with it

he knows someone running when he sees it

if he didn't check on him, if this lad disappeared one day and the baby along with him, he'd never forgive himself. the lad doesn't even have a baby bag or car seat with him, and the personalised sticker on the back window of a lady and a dog is a dead giveaway that the car is stolen

but the lad is terrified. and when he startled him, he didn't turn. didn’t lift his arms to protect himself. no

he covered his baby

like he was afraid he'd be hurt

that's enough for ghost

🧼💀

i'd wanna set this in the 80's or 90's, just to make it even harder for soap to get away from his husband. he's a trans man with a newborn; he has no one to run to and no resources to help him. his husband's bought and paid for everything for him since he was 17; a few whirlwind weeks of unbelievable dates and extravagant gifts and he was living in his mansion, getting married the day after his 18th birthday. he thought it was love. thought he was being looked after and cared for the way he’s always wanted

he was in pain and alone and naive enough to believe the first person who came along and promised to make it better. nothing's in his name, not his insurance or his meds, he doesn’t have a bank account or savings; other than a birth certificate, nothing even ties him to his baby. his husband could take his world away from him with a snap of his fingers and he made sure soap always knew it

he never had a chance of getting away

but ghost is ex-military

he doesn’t know the lad’s story, doesn’t know the details of what he’s running from. he doesn’t need to know

he decided he was helping him the second he pulled into his service station

[benevolenterrancy]

Hi I have caught up to you on having feelings about Zhuzhi-Lang. He's a good boy! 🥺 Good snake boy! 🥺 I had the thought, after Zhuzhi let SQQ leave after SQQ yelled at him... what if they Stole Him. What if.

(Also have you read/been recommended anything by corduroyserpent yet? Big writer of Zhuzhi-Lang fics, including a very cute de-aged Zhuzhi-Lang and some zhushen)

Justifications of bride-stealing!

(AND HE'S THE BEST BOY 😭 I LOVE HIM SO MUCH, SO MUCH!! have some further au thoughts because this has contaminated my brain...)

What I think would actually happen if they stole SQQ? Absolutely nothing good for anyone, LBH would Lose His Fucking Mind xD as a more interesting answer though, I like the idea that Shen "Pedantic Nitpicky Asshole" Qingqiu's primary point of argument is that he is not a bride so he cannot be "bridenapped" regardless of demonic tradition or intention!

This eventually leads to them all completely avoiding the Maigu Ridge incident because TLJ realizes that, somehow, SQQ doesn't realize the depths of his son's feelings for him and decides to put all his efforts into being a wingman for his nephew instead because he finds the entire thing absolutely hilarious and rather satisfying after his own sad romance. Obviously someone like SQQ would do much better with his good, loyal nephew than the disappointing offspring of that disastrous relationship!

As for ZZL he just has to assume that LBH must not be treating SQQ anywhere near the way he should be (and like... he isn't wrong at this point, there is a non-zero amount of torture and terror going on here) if SQQ doesn't see himself as being tied to LBH in any way. And if he's not attached to LBH then there's absolutely no reason he shouldn't make his own efforts to seduce SQQ! After all, if LBH isn't valuing SQQ properly then obviously ZZL has to step up because someone as kind as SQQ deserves the best!!!

[landedinpayne]

in case you are in the mood to feel devastated here’s an alternate way of viewing charles’ response to edwin’s confession:

we know that charles kinda puts edwin on a pedestal- yes they are partners but there is a bit of a hierarchy between them. charles just looks up to and admires edwin in so many ways while constantly looking down on and being really hard on himself. he puts on his big happy persona because he thinks that people wouldn’t like him if they actually got to know him.

so when edwin confesses, it’s like a blow to him. he took his charming persona too far and went and tricked the most important person in the world into thinking he was worthy of love. and it’s worse because he does love edwin in that way, which is exactly why he can’t let him know that. charles still believes that he is like his dad, and he saw exactly what his parents’ relationship did to his mother.

he thinks that loving edwin in the way that he wants to would only cause more pain to this boy who has already been through far more than he deserves. so he blinks back his tears, attempts the same charming smile he’s used all these years, and dishes out the gentlest non-rejection in the history of forever

[somegrumpynerd]

Cross has trouble getting to sleep alone in his room and goes looking for a distraction, but ends up finding a solution for both of them

[stayatsam]

people (who don't have it) are so strange when you try to explain insomnia to them, to the extent that they grow uncomfortable at the mention of it or any explanation as to why you're tired or irritable or any other thing

i've never once had a conversation with someone about my insomnia that didn't seem to make them squirm or just was outright disrespectful. tried explaining to my parents that i have it and was just casually explaining to them i have to do breathing exercises and mental games + take melatonin to get some sleep, and even then it's not guaranteed, and my mom just changed the subject entirely while my dad laughed that it sounds like "too much work, why cant you just lay your head down and sleep"

[kylejsugarman]

au squared walt seething because his wife won't speak to him and his son hates him and his infant daughter never sees him, meanwhile jesse is turning up to work each day with his daughter who loves him like

[taniushka12]

Thinking again abt my silly barry/zane concept where zane yoinks him into the dark place to help him produce nightless night and barry is just having a fun kinda bizarre time in this pseudo dream nightmare with this stupid sexy pseudo alan until they sit down at the theater to watch the movie and he's like hey. Hey. What the actual Fuck is this

[necrotic-nephilim]

Do you have any more ideas about the dead dove vampire!dickxtim au you wrote a while ago? It's lived in my head ever since and I'd love to know more.

first of all thank you so much that's so sweet! second of all, i have SO many ideas you have no idea. that fic ate at my brain for like a month before i found the time to write it so i had plenty of ideas i didn't fully explore. i'm adding a read more just bc. that was one of my more fucked up fics so i don't want to subject anyone to a necro kink jumpscare

so one of the big ideas i've thought about with that fic is Tim dealing with the aftermath of it, right. bc he's of course going to hide it from everyone. the Batfam all just neds to hold onto the hope that they can save Dick somehow, and knowing what Dick did would kill any lingering hope that there's anything left of Dick Grayson in the walking husk that he's become. so Tim has to deal with the worst of it alone, probably not even mentioning he ran into Dick.

the fun part tho is that above everything else, Tim wouldn't be able to let go of Dick's comment about fantasizing about Tim before being a vampire. Tim knows the comment was made just to get in his head, but that doesn't stop it from working. he spends hours pouring over old footage of him and Dick training, hanging out, on patrol, anything he can find. just to like. try to find evidence of Dick's gaze lingering. it eats Tim alive not knowing one way or the other if it was a lie. if it's true, at least it makes it easier for Tim to move on from the memory of Dick. but not knowing is worse. and he never finds anything that satiates the question so like. that'd destroy Tim the most. (the real answer is that Dick genuinely didn't feel attraction to Tim before being a vampire, *but* Dick is convinced he did bc being a vampire fucked him up so badly that he's become his own unreliable narrator. so it's both true and untrue, and in the end, it doesn't matter either way bc Tim is fucked up by the thought of it and even if they "fixed" Dick by curing him, i think Dick's romantic feelings would linger in the horror of what he did.)

i'm really just. in love with Dick's feelings toward Tim in the fic. the most difficult part of the fic was figuring out how to end it, bc sure as a sexual fantasy Dick is obsessed with killing Tim, but he's also deeply in love with Tim, so it's difficult to follow through on. Dick wants to make Tim a vampire more than anything, but he is genuinely worried about how well it'd take for Tim. the fic doesn't really go into who's on Dick's side as a vampire, but i personally believe he's turned most of the Titans. probably some of his own rogues as well, i could see him turning Slade. i can't explain why, those are just the vibes.

it is important to me just how much of Dick's feelings for Tim are based in him not wanting Tim to live under Bruce's thumb. like the whole vampire brain has convinced Dick that Bruce is somehow the villain in this, and it was Bruce's control keeping Dick from being the person he wanted to be. it's a very warped reality and if i continued the fic i'd love for the second part to be from Dick's perspective just to have fun with the unreliable narrator of it.

back to the porn tho. Dick would seek TIm out again. probably in Tim's own apartment, just bc he wants to destroy every safe space Tim has. getting into Tim's head is an important part of breaking TIm down. the fear of Tim fighting back against being a vampire is one that Dick is trying to figure out how to manage and his current plan is to break Tim mentally. it's why he brings up wanting to sleep with TIm before being a vampire. he *knows* it's gonna fuck up Tim. and the more he puts these little cracks in Tim's psyche, the more he's sure he's breaking Tim down enough to be able to turn him. so going to Tim's apartment and proving that at any point, Dick can easily find Tim and fuck him. always holding the threat of killing Tim over his head. and Dick knows Tim didn't tell anyone when days pass after their first meeting and no Bat comes after him so like. Dick really just pushes the limits. i think he would brand Tim just bc he can. i also got a comment on the fic that mentioned Dick stabbing Tim and fucking the wound and i canNOT get that image out of my head either-

and the necro/snuff kink just. Dick playing the long game, so it takes maybe months of stalking Tim, going after him. sometimes he fucks Tim, sometimes he just fights and taunts him. and all the talk about killing Tim fucks with Tim's head a little bit. i think it'd be fun if it killed Tim's ability to have vanilla/normal sex with someone else, like Kon. it's hard for Tim to understand anyone being attracted to him in a way that doesn't involve him being a dead body. i don't think he develops the kink fully, but he does end up convincing himself being a corpse is the only way he's attractive bc of all the things Dick has said to him. it all plays into Dick psychologically breaking Tim.

i am a lover of fucked up/unhappy endings so. for me. the ending would be Dick following through on his plan to kill Tim and turn him. it'd take months for Dick to work up the courage bc TIm was absolutely right when he pointed out that Dick was too scared to actually follow through on his fantasy. Dick tries, multiple times. he convinces himself no less than five times that this is going to be the one. this'll be the time he really does it. but just as Tim starts to die, Dick panics. i think it's especially fun if once Dick even gives Tim CPR bc of his cold feet. so Tim does "die" for a second and has to brutally come back while Dick is buried inside of him.

but when Dick does it, his fears manifest in that Tim does *not* take being a vampire well. he's constantly trying to kill himself (in the time it takes for Dick to break Tim, Tim probably does figure out what poison can kill a vampire) and Dick ends up having to keep Tim locked up so Tim doesn't kill himself. would truly love to try to write Tim as mentally shattered as possible. part of him loves Dick, but he's fighting himself so hard he's not even sure if it's the vampire side that loves Dick or the human side. he's kept like a human pet, bc Dick is convinced he'll get Tim to accept it sooner or later. just a very fun, very fucked up sort of ending. i say this about all the fics i write but this one specifically i do *really* want to continue someday. i know exactly the direction i'd take it, and it could turn into a pretty long fic with a lot of fucked up porn, a lot of unrequited love, and an eventual mind break for Tim.

[prince-liest]

I have officially hit a "too stressed to write" state of affairs that I suspect will last until this Sunday. Kinda hoping folks aren't too disappointed in the sudden change in regular update schedule - sorry. :(

[pixelatedraindrops]

Yuma Month: Day 25: Broken

Night terrors, burning body temperature, delirious hallucinations, and glassy faded vision…

Helpless and afraid, he calls out for his caretaker…but he’s not there…

He’s all alone now…with no one to help…

Completely broken.

[greatgoddyke]

much ado about pleasure

[darcyolsson]

life update ive actually been feeling a lot better lately <3 will be heading back to my parents' place again tomorrow but i've been at my own place since friday which is the longest i've managed that since the summer :) still not back to normal but slowly getting there it seems thank gawd

[yaspup9000]

Touch my katamari in a nutshell everybody…

[haliaiii]

Ok after 3 weeks of waiting I finally mustered up the courage to email my roomate,, wish me luck

[madbard]

Sanctity

A Killer Sans story.

Every child dreamed of the Angel.

When Sans was young, he had imagined it as a skeleton, beaming with all the radiance of the stolen sun. Each evening, he kneeled beside his father and whispered the poetic words of prophecy, voice faltering at first, then growing steady as the tale of the Angel settled firmly into his skull. Later, he would kneel with his brother while his father vanished into the lab. Each night, he dreamed of the moment when the Angel would tear down the barrier, at last letting the bright and deadly sunshine in.

Everything could be attributed to the Angel. If a monster was successful, it was because they had a place in the prophecy, an important role which would contribute to their eventual freedom. If a monster fell down, it was because they had failed, somehow. They were not the Angel’s chosen and would never be free.

(Did Sans have a place in that prophecy? If he was chosen, then why was he so fragile? Why would it be so difficult for him to make it to that future? Sans had asked his father that one night, after their prayer. Nothing would ever break that silence.)

When Gaster’s final experiment went up in flames, Sans imagined it made a light brighter than the sun. He imagined its light was like the palm of the Angel, taking his father with it – or casting him, finally, into the infinite darkness of the earth. He spread his father’s ashes on the remnants of the lab and then, as an afterthought, on his younger brother’s scarf. He laughed at the funeral, quietly. He shook the chill hands of fear and doubt from his soul. He had faith.

(Some monsters whispered that the prophecy had been interpreted incorrectly. They whispered that the Angel would indeed free them – that their dust would one day mix with the river and thus find its way to the ocean. Sans ignored them as best he could.)

When Sans was young, he had imagined the Angel as a skeleton. But lounging at his post one day in early adulthood, he was surprised to see it take the guise of a child. He was even more surprised when no one else seemed to see it for what it truly was. It turned to him, looked him in the eyes. Then raised a single finger to its lips.

Sans followed the Angel. He watched it navigate through each encounter with kindness and grace. He watched it befriend his brother, the captain of the guard, the royal scientist, and even the king. He watched it destroy the barrier and finally baptize his people in the all-destroying light of the sun. He felt its eyes upon him, and in that moment knew the gaze of something truly unlike himself. Come and see, those eyes said. He saw the prophecy come true.

He stood with his brother in the light of the Angel, the light of the long-awaited sun. For a moment, he thought himself in heaven.

Then he woke in hell.

That first time, he didn’t even see the Angel arrive in Snowdin. His eyelights flickered slowly as he wandered the icy streets in a daze. The air was still, and thick with a scent he refused to recognize. They had escaped, hadn’t they? After years of prayer and service, monsterkind was finally free. His mouth curved around a quiet, desperate prayer. This had to be a dream…

Just outside of Snowdin, he found his brother’s scarf.

Funny, how these things worked. Sans’ first impulse was to find the Angel. Something had gone wrong, certainly – something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. But he had seen the Angel treat his brother with kindness. It would have protected him… right?

Perhaps he already knew…

“Sans.”

Sans spun around, gripping Papyrus’ scarf. The Angel stood behind him, eyes almost as wide as its smile. A silver knife glinted in its grip. His whispered prayer froze as his eyes went dark. He stood still.

“what happened?”

“Nothing much. And everything.” The Angel stepped forward. “Give that to me.”

“where’s papyrus?”

“Free.” The Angel took another step forward, and Sans felt a chill creep up his spine. “You remember being free, don’t you?”

“i…”

“Don’t you want to be free again?” This time, Sans didn’t have time to respond. Its knife had already slashed through his chest.

The second time, Sans woke in the early hours of the morning. He took a shortcut into the woods, stepping onto the abandoned path which led to the hidden door. Even so, he didn’t quite understand. Even so, he didn’t quite believe. Fear made a nest in his ribcage.

This time, the Angel killed him first, separating his head from his shoulders, and Sans woke up back at home.

If a monster fell down, it was because they had failed, somehow. Sans fell again and again. Each time he died, the Angel would say something different, something new. It spoke of the sun’s rays, the way they warmed at first then burned and bleached and ruined. It spoke of the sins of the surface, the suffering of the Underground. It spoke of an endless loop, from which they would never be free. “Better to end it now,” the Angel whispered, wiping blood from its blade as Sans crumpled to the ground.

The loop continued endlessly. Bit by bit, Sans stopped praying.

The loop continued endlessly. He began to fight back.

The loop continued endlessly. The angel’s words changed.

“Do you know the difference between an angel and a god?” the Angel asked once, after Sans dodged its blade. Sweat dripped down his skull, and the air seemed to frost his ribcage as he gasped for breath.

“sorry. i god no idea.” The knife whistled past his ear, and a hushed “angel’s sake” escaped his mouth before he growled and swallowed the word.

“I’ll give you a hint.” It attacked once more, and this time it didn’t miss. It walked over to his dissolving form and whispered to him. “An angel is a servant. A god serves no one.” It stepped back. He died.

This time, the Angel approached him with an altogether different kind of smile.

“But what is a god without an angel?”

Sans said no in every way he could imagine. Loop after loop, death after death. He joked and danced around the question. He sent another attack. At his lowest, he pretended he hadn’t heard.

“Angels live forever.”

“when everyone else is dead?”

“Angels are never alone.”

“i wouldn’t be alone if it wasn’t for you.”

“Angels are powerful. They are beautiful and loved.”

“heh, that’s kind of a loaded comment, isn’t it?”

“Angels know their purpose.”

“what would a lazybones like me want with a purpose?”

“Gods are tireless. I can keep going forever, and nothing will ever change.”

“…”

“You were made to serve me.”

The funny thing about prayer? Repetition makes it meaningless. There is performance to it, certainly. There is what prayer symbolizes, there is the essential power of routine. But once the words become instinctive, the meaning can’t help but diminish. After enough repetition, prayer becomes little more than muscle memory for the weary. And when the weary recite it, how then can they hope to see God?

Sans kneeled in the hallway, bones aching, magic all but spent. Somewhere before this moment lay the memory of the sun, the way he had rested in its blinding light. Even before that, the echoes of evenings spent in prayer with his father, torn carpet barely cushioning his bones. Those memories were lost now, or buried. So many deaths – had there truly been anything before this? Could there ever be anything after? Sans didn’t know. Eventually, he no longer cared.

“and if i said yes?”

It paused and stared at him. A chuckle started low in its throat, stopped just behind its teeth. Sans wished he could feel a twinge of anger or fear at the sound. He just felt tired.

“Just for one round. Just to try something new.”

“somehow i don’t believe you.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that makes a difference.” The god stepped forward, knife glinting in its hand. Sans closed his eyes, waiting for the final blow. Instead, he felt the warm handle slide into his skeletal grip. “Go forth, my angel. Do as your god commands.”

There was a momentary darkness. He woke at the foot of his bed, hands folded. Eyes dark.

When Sans was young, he had imagined the Angel as a skeletal figure. After maturing, he discarded that image as a figment of childhood’s vivid ego. For a moment in time, doesn’t every child worship a god that looks like them?

Sans was not a god. Through the snow, the water and the flame, he became the angel of death. The flash of his knife answered prayers, scattered dust in the river that it may one day reach the ocean. He remained by his god, always. He watched, as if outside himself, as his knife found the faithful and the faithless alike. He watched his brother die.

“That prayer, in his final moments – you know, before he forgave and spared you. Didn’t you teach him that?”

“…”

“Aw, don’t be like that. It’s hypocritical when you’re the one that killed him.”

“shut up.”

“Ooh.” The god smiled and leaned forward. “But it’s new, isn’t it? Isn’t it better?”

“no. no, it isn’t.”

“Hm.” The god nodded. “Do it again.”

The funny thing about prayer? Its meaning is only found through repetition. Sans scoured through the Underground again and again, knife faltering at first, then growing steady as the path of the Angel settled firmly into his skull. He made a sacrament of death, and his god glutted itself on the dust in his path. He became something truly unlike himself – did that now make him holy?

Holy enough, he decided, waking among flowers with his soul burning bright outside his body, a strange tarry fluid dripping from his eyes. Holy enough for this.

It seemed to know what he was planning. At least, it didn’t look surprised when he brandished his weapon. Nor did it fight back. It only spoke. “You know, you were nothing before me. And you will be nothing after.”

How easy, to kill a god. In the end, how stupidly simple. The Angel laughed as he killed his god with its own gleaming knife, and it laughed too, bright blood staining its teeth.

“i killed you.” The Angel giggled. “does that make me god now?” The god lay still. Its chest had stopped moving a long time ago. The Angel finished his prayer anyway. He had to be certain. “actually, nah, not sure i like that… hey, i’ll figure it out.” The Angel rose to his feet, staggered a bit, then bowed his head. “go to hell.”

What is an angel without a god? From then on, the Angel drifted from world to world. He recited prayer as he always did, utterly divorced from meaning. His knife brought whatever his victims chose, and he learned to see the afterlife in their dimming eyes – the reflection of paradise or punishment, a final acknowledgment of the waiting dark. He laughed in the moment before a creature crumpled to dust – something about it made his soul sting, sharply. It made him feel alive.

Sometimes the Angel would glance over his shoulder, searching for his god’s approval. When he caught himself doing this, his posture would stiffen suddenly, and he would cease his prayer. In those rare moments, a victim might escape. In that way, news spread through the multiverse of his arrival – though ‘Angel’ was not the word they used.

Even to the multiverse’s darkest corners, the Angel slowly became known, and this filled certain people with a cool excitement. Gods watched on and wondered where his allegiance might fall. But this Angel had little patience for deities.

“Aren’t you just fantastic!” The Angel paused, then straightened, turning through the snow of decimated universe to face a small, skeletal figure, dressed in a stained scarf and splattered with ink. “A Sans who no longer believes in anything, but still sees himself as the Angel! A Sans for whom death has become prayer, because prayer never led to anything but death. Odd, definitely – I’d guess your creator was feeling pretty ambitious when they made you…” The skeleton tilted their head. “I’m not sure they succeeded.”

“who are you?”

“Ink! God of Creation. You see, I helped make this universe, so… whoa there, let’s not be too hasty!’ The Angel had raised his knife and taken a smooth step forward.

“god, you say?”

“Hm. Maybe I shouldn’t have said – wow, you’re quick!” Ink swung a massive brush through the air and the Angel’s knife skittered across the brushstroke’s obsidian surface. “Look, sloppy or not I think you came from a place of real excitement and love! I’d like to –”

Ink never finished his sentence. Blinking, the Angel darted around the obsidian shield and raised his knife to stab this god in the chest. He managed to spill a vial of red paint, so much like blood that he smirked, believing for a moment that he had already won. Retribution was brutal and swift.

The Angel no longer felt fear. His god had cured him of that, through the endless resets. Still, Ink’s rapid-fire attacks quickly had him on the defensive, constantly dodging and side-stepping to avoid strike after inky dark strike from the god’s strange weapon. Each time he brandished his knife, he was ambushed by a new attack from a new direction, all coinciding on his form as he struggled to fight back, struggled to survive.

Was this the true power of a god? Something cold settled in the Angel’s soul, causing it to fizzle. He began to seriously consider retreat.

But to where?

The Angel tried to step into another world, but Ink was on him the moment his portal closed, taking advantage of the snow’s blinding afterimage to dig a painted blade into his back. It was dark here, and cold – far colder than Snowdin ever had been. Another blow, and the Angel’s soul shuddered again. This time, he felt fear.

Was this it? Was this where he died?

Another blow.

Perhaps this was right. Perhaps this was what he deserved…

Another blow and sparks flew from his soul, igniting terror and pain. This time the Angel screamed. This time, his mouth shaped a word he’d sworn to never say again.

“ANGEL!!!”

Ink lunged forward, but before his final blow could land something warm and strong gripped the Angel’s ankle and dragged him into the infinite darkness of the earth.

When the Angel woke, he imagined for a moment that he was dead. His sockets could not focus because there was nothing to focus on – the world seemed to have vanished into a brilliant white expanse. He lay there, soul burning, weeping black, emotionless tears. A minute? A year? If the figure hadn’t spoken, the Angel might have lain there forever.

“Greetings, little angel. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

The Angel leapt to his feet. Across from him stood a strange, dark figure. At first, he might have guessed that it was a skeleton – but a tarry black fluid not unlike the Angel’s tears covered every bit of the monster’s body, leaving only a single teal light to stare into his sockets. The Angel might not have recognized Ink’s power, but he could feel this monster’s strength – could feel it in the way the very air seemed to bristle against his presence. This was no mortal. This was beyond anything the Angel had seen.

“what have you heard?”

“In general? Ah, little one, that would require some time.” A fluid black tentacle slipped from the creature’s spine and wrapped around the Angel’s shoulders, immobilizing him. The Angel was still. “But you were asking what I had heard about you. So I will oblige. I have heard that you are a harbinger of death. Some have gone so far as to call you an angel, but I know better than that. After all, what is an angel without a god?”

“i already killed my god. i don’t need another.”

“I do not desire your worship. Besides, there is a title which suits me far better than god.”

“what do you want?”

“A fighter. Someone with little respect for the likes of Dream and Ink, who would aid me in destroying my enemies.”

“you want me to kill gods for you? i would do that anyway.”

“Well then, little god-killer. I have a place for you, if you’ll take it.”

“…and if i say no?”

“Then I shall leave you in the first universe that opens up beneath our feet. You will be free to cause whatever destruction you wish. But if you choose to follow me – oh, you will see and experience far greater things than you could ever imagine.”

“somehow i don’t believe you.”

“Very well. You may return to your dreary existence. But you are limited when you fight alone. You will be more powerful at my side.” The figure extended a tarry hand. “I am not like the other gods. I have no need for angels. But you aren’t exactly an angel anymore… are you?”

The god killer stared at the dark figure, stared at his extended, toxic hand. The dead grass beneath his knees felt like torn carpet. He remembered a different hand, a hollow palm. Prayer was simpler then. The words didn’t yet matter, not like his father’s cool hand on his skull, not like his brother’s chirping voice. The angel wasn’t present in that space. It was only them.

His soul flickered.

“no.” Killer rose to his feet, meeting those deadly teal eyelights. Viscous black fluid burned into his hand. “i’m not.”

The prophecy was fulfilled. The Angel was dead. And for the first time, a prayer was granted.

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